


A cup of tea would restore my normality

by tonightless



Series: The Finite Anthology: 100 Prompts ∞ [Merlin/Arthur] [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Potions, Sexual Fantasy, Tea, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-28 12:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11418120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonightless/pseuds/tonightless
Summary: For a moment he can’t bring his legs to work, and he hears himself say: “Does your tea normally work?”Merlin’s eyes glitter. “With excellent results.”





	A cup of tea would restore my normality

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt #12: Tea. **Please heed the warnings - dub/non-con ahead.**
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> This could have been fluffy and cute, but my brain went in the other direction... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯   
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> The title is a quote from 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' by Douglas Adams.

 

 

 

**ೋ**

╔══════════════════════╗

  
_“ Your eyes are like a blue sky, blue sky, blue  _  
_You’re floating in the fountain,  
in the fountain of youth   _  
_ I bet you have an ocean,  
secret little potion _  
_I bet you have a lover_  
_who’s as fine as you.”_  

—Katie Herzig  
  
  
╚══════════════════════╝

 

  

## I.

“Can I recommend anything?”

Arthur, who had been loitering by the door, looks around. “Sorry?”

“Tea can be incredibly restorative,” the man behind the counter – Merlin, probably; that’s the name on the shop front – continues. He’s tall, with dark, thick hair and eyes that look blue-grey in the soft light of the shop.

“No thanks.”

“Ignore him.” That’s Morgana, who has finally looked up from the teapot display. She throws Merlin a long-suffering look. “He’s a brat.”

Arthur is about to reply but by the time the words form in his head she is at the other end of the shop, peering at oolong tea.

“I’ll wait outside,” he mutters instead, already reaching for the door handle, but there’s a movement out of the corner of his eye: Merlin cupping his jaw with a hand, elbow propped on the counter.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not going to buy anything.”

Merlin narrows his eyes.  “Your sister’s right. I should just ignore you.”

“Then get on with it.”

“But then I wouldn’t be any better than your father.”

Arthur feels like he’s been whacked in the stomach. It’s worse when he spins on his heel and sees the gleam in Merlin’s eyes. Rage propels him to the counter and he hisses:

“She told—?”                                     

“Oh, no.” Merlin is completely unruffled. “I’m just good at reading people.”

“You can’t have—”

“But I did.” Merlin’s tone is so final that Arthur’s temper cools. “It’s why I set up this shop. I recommend tea to help people’s problems.”

“I don’t think all the tea in the world could solve mine,” Arthur says. Merlin is still looking at him – expectantly, Arthur realises. Unthinkingly: “Morgana’s the favourite.”

His voice is small and Arthur hates it. He’s been eclipsed by the business and later Morgana his entire life. More than enough time to get used to his place on the bottom tier. He makes himself look away from Merlin’s big eyes and long lines, and… why is Arthur even thinking about this?

“Not that you care.”

“You _are_ a brat,” Merlin says, decisively. Arthur gapes at him. There’s a mirth in Merlin’s eyes that he cannot understand. He fumbles for an answer but his thoughts are tangled and then spirited away when Merlin speaks again. “I did offer to help.”

The small shop is suddenly suffocating. There’s nothing to do but leave with burning cheeks and Merlin’s gaze digging into his back. It drives him out the door, sharp and uncomfortable.

Then the door slams and the bell tinkles, and Arthur just feels bare.

 

## II.

He wasn’t planning to go back.

He doesn’t like tea, for one thing. He doesn’t like Merlin, either, even though he can’t shake the weight of Merlin’s eyes on him. The intensity of it slots into his head when he showers, or types up a lab report, or does his laundry. And it always short-circuits him: for a second, maybe two, but his hands stop and a shiver twists up his spine until the hair on the back of his neck stands to attention. Then his hands restart: lathering shampoo, tapping backspace, pulling hot, crisp linens from the dryer. His head always takes a little longer.

Eventually, he dares let his thoughts stray back to Merlin’s voice and frame and presence – stupid as it sounds – and before Arthur can fathom why, he is on the bus to the centre of town.

When Merlin sees him, he smiles. “I knew you’d come back.”

“Just like you know what tea people want?” Arthur goes to the counter, already annoyed. “This isn’t _Chocolat_.”

“Like I said, I’m good at reading people.”

“You were rude.”

“Yes, I was. Sorry about that.” Except Merlin doesn’t sound sorry, and they stew in prickly silence for a long moment.

“Well,” Arthur waves his hand vaguely. “What would you recommend?”

“For what?”

“Me.”

Arthur knows he’s being petty to the point of meanness but Merlin gets under his skin exactly like his father does. He’s not even sure why he came back. The floors creak and the shelves tower over him and the herby, smoky smell will linger around him for the rest of the day. Worse, Merlin’s gaze is more piercing than he remembered. It feels like he’s being turned inside out.

Finally, Merlin says: “You need to relax before we try anything else. You work too hard.”

A muscle bunches in Arthur’s jaw. Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“No.”

They stare at each other, at an impasse. Merlin’s eyes are stormier today. Still, Arthur’ll be damned if he backs down first. Merlin’s almost as stubborn as he is, but turns away just as Arthur feels like he’s drowning.

Merlin cranes his head back and peers at the looming shelves behind the counter. Arthur follows his every move, up to the point when Merlin climbs a shelf ladder to reach the tea and Arthur’s eyes are locked on his arse.

Arthur clears his throat and forces his eyes upward. “Is any of this – scientific?”

“Well, your diagnosis doesn’t really lend itself to the treatment of physical symptoms,” Merlin says. “I can help headaches, stomach pain, insomnia, low energy levels. Having a rod up your arse is something else.”

“If you insult all your customers like this,” Arthur says, though it’s hard to get the heat into his voice when Merlin reaches up and he can see Merlin’s milky skin and spine and sinew where his shirt has ridden up, “it’s a miracle you’re still in business.”

“My other customers trust my expertise,” Merlin replies, once he’s back on the ground and has set a box of teabags on the counter. “So should you.”

“Right.” They look innocent enough. Arthur hopes they don’t smell as peculiar as the shop; this is the longest he’s been in here, and the odour is making him feel a little woozy. “And what are you prescribing me, exactly?”

“Oh, it’s just some black tea.” Merlin lists off ingredients that mean nothing to Arthur, finishing up with, “and a hint of magic.”

“Is that why you call yourself Merlin?”

“Merlin’s my real name.”

“Christ.” Arthur pulls out his wallet, but Merlin shakes his head.

“No, no. On the house.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

Unexpectedly Merlin’s fingers ghost across his wrist, and Arthur’s thoughts blur a little. “It’s the least I can do. You really do need to let go a little.”

Then Merlin’s touch and its oozing warmth is gone. Arthur nods dumbly and takes the tea. For a moment he can’t bring his legs to work, and he hears himself say: “Does your tea normally work?”

Merlin’s eyes glitter. “With excellent results.”

                                          

## III.

Arthur doesn’t know much about tea, but Merlin’s tea has to be something else. At first he has it after long days at uni, until it’s a sweet ritual that spread to the rest of his day. He has it when he has friends round to watch the football. After his shower in the mornings. He brings a thermos of it with him everywhere and drinks in classes, at the library, before rugby training until coffee tastes bitter and water is too bland and juice too sweet.

Arthur likes tea. Merlin’s tea, which by the end of the day when he’s alone and watching Netflix in bed at midnight has made him a little dopey, but calm. And warm – the same kind of warm he’d felt with Merlin’s skin on his skin.

He’s not sure how he didn’t realise he had finished the box, but the fear that judders through him when he does is so visceral he almost skives to get some more. He doesn’t because it’s just tea, he reminds himself, but with coffee in his thermos he is irritable all day. When he gets home, he throws his coffee in the bin with a vehemence that surprises him.

 

## IV.

“I’m back for my prescription.” Arthur musters as much sarcasm as he can.

“Oh? That was quick,” Merlin says.

“Oh.” Arthur is suddenly floundering. Seeing Merlin makes coherent thought slide out of reach, apparently. “Uh. I just…”

Merlin cocks his head to the side. “It’s only tea, love. How’re you finding it?”

“It’s…” Arthur thinks about it, how it cocoons him and soothes him and even fortifies him for rare meetings with his father, but settles lamely for, “nice.”

“You sound unconvinced.” Merlin doesn’t sound annoyed. Instead, before Arthur can protest, there’s his calming tea – relief crashes over him when he sees it – and a new, strange box on the counter in front of him. “Try this, too.”

“What is it?”

“Something to, ah. Perk you up a little,” Merlin says. Arthur eyes the box warily. He wants to say no, but then Merlin says, “You’re definitely calmer than the last time I saw you.”

“Are you saying I trust in your expertise now?”

“I think you will if you keep taking what I prescribe you.”

“You’re pushy,” Arthur mutters, but he slides a tenner across the counter.

 

## V.

Arthur tries his new tea once, on a lazy Sunday when his head is stuffed with thoughts about his father and his gloomy, corporate destiny with a degree he doesn’t care for. Merlin didn’t really say what it did, but Arthur’s dosed up on his calming tea, and while that might not stop his sadder thoughts in their tracks it has ensnared him enough that he can’t bring himself to be sceptical of Merlin. He brings the mug to his mouth and drinks his new tea and…

…nothing happens. He puts the empty mug down with a thud that rattles around his skull. Disappointment blooms even as half of him is secretly heartened: it was just tea, Merlin was some well-intentioned nutter, and—

“ _Fuck_.”                                                              

His vision blurs; heat rolls over his body in a merciless wave and for a long moment all he can feel is the sudden, insistent throbbing between his legs. Clumsily, he unfastens his trousers and his hands vanish into his boxers.

He’s hardly touched himself when release surges through him. Arthur drowns in it. His hands keep moving even after the white has pooled from his eyes.

His hands keep moving until he is sobbing with want.

 

## VI.

Even looking at the box makes his cheeks heat. Furious, he stuffs the tea behind his tinned tomatoes. He seethes so much that when he runs out of his calming tea again, he sends Morgana to get it for him.

Arthur finds himself staring at the calming tea every time the kettle boils. He can’t remember what he used to think about; now all his thoughts lead back to Merlin, and why he didn’t go and get the box himself, didn’t go and see Merlin h…

Then the kettle clicks, and he is left with an ache he doesn’t understand. An ache he doesn’t want to connect to sobbing on his kitchen floor with his hands moving even though he willed them to stop. Moving until want stripped him of resistance.

Still, the ache stays with him through the night. He lies in his bed and stares up at the ceiling and wills it to disappear. He tosses and turns. Takes Nytol. Listens to white noise. Takes more Nytol, sometimes, because nothing heals him. He only sleeps when he is bone-weary and he always wakes when the sun comes up.

 

## VII.

“You look terrible.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Did you try the other tea I gave you?”

“What the fuck was that all about?”

“I said it would perk you up.”

“I know how to wank, _Mer_ lin.” Arthur doesn’t even want to think about how his hand had seized his cock; how his other had slipped down the back of boxers and tentatively explored his arse. “I – that wasn’t what I needed. You gave me the wrong thing.”

Merlin shrugs. “If you say so.”

“I fucking say so,” Arthur hisses. Merlin just looks at him.

“I do know what I’m doing,” Merlin says. Arthur runs his hands over his face. He wants the world to make sense again. Then Merlin takes his jaw in his hand and Arthur’s simmering anger wanes.

He wants Merlin’s touch, too, and the warm, heady feeling that seeps into him with it. He's so fucking tired that it feels like Merlin is the only thing pinning him to reality.

“I’ll get you something to help you sleep.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, voice hoarse. But Merlin does not move.

“Do you trust me, Arthur?”

Falling into Merlin’s stare, the word tumbles from his lips. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Merlin says softly. He draws back, and Arthur is left feeling cold.

 

## VIII.

The sleep tea helps Arthur so much. He knew it would.

He sleeps easily, and as he sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of Merlin – the parts of him he knows, anyway. Those big eyes and long, lean lines and milky skin and his honey voice.

Sometimes the dreams evolve from fragments of Merlin into something else altogether. When Arthur wakes after those dreams, release is the only thing that brings him fully into wakefulness.

Maybe it’s a new clarity he has; sanity, even. Maybe he just can’t bring himself to be ashamed. But when he woke one morning with his hips rutting against the mattress, hot and hard and wanting, he didn’t know how to stop when his mind always circled back to Merlin Merlin Merlin and his hips moved faster faster faster …

Wanting. Always wanting.

Because this isn’t enough, Arthur decides one day, and the next thing he knows he is scrabbling to find the tea stuffed behind his tinned tomatoes. When the kettle clicks he pours the water over the two teabags – his sleep tea and the aphrodisiac – and watches them bleed into the water.

It doesn’t take long before the aphrodisiac’s scent pulls his t-shirt over his head. His pyjama bottoms are next; he kicks them away as a tiny, shivery part of him stirs. He is naked and alone and he can’t remember the last time he ate but when he drinks his new brew, it’s the strangest mix of herbs and sweetness.

They strike simultaneously when he is safe under his duvet. His cock stiffens so quickly his vision softens at the edges, just as the sleep tea starts to cloud his brain. He told himself he’d try to last this time but his hand wraps around himself before he can draw breath. The sensation of it against his length is unbearable.

Then he is pulled down into hot, heavy darkness, and his hand slows ( _no no no_ ) as his mind switches off.

 

## IX.

Arthur sleeps soundly even though he soils his sheets so often he had to buy extra sets and so much he must come more than once. He sleeps even with dreams so vivid that he only realises he was sleeping when he wakes to find himself alone. It is him fisting the sheets, it’s his hand around his cock and his fingers pushing inside of him and his noises swirling around his bedroom. Merlin is nowhere to be found, but Arthur is a man so possessed he is lulled asleep by himself moaning Merlin’s name.

He is compliant under the rising orgasms that cocoon him in his sleep. Docile in the face of the fantasies that consume him. At peace with every cup of tea he downs.

Until the moment he runs out of his calming tea. The panic that floods through him is worse this time because night in, night out his nocturnal hours have been spent picturing Merlin in every scenario imaginable. Just thinking about it makes his cheeks blaze.

He can’t face Merlin. He wants to, fuck, he’d buy all the tea in Merlin’s mad shop if that would – god, he’s so fucking confused. Seeing Merlin would – would—

He still has some pride. He still has his dreams.

He texts Morgana, asking her to pick up his tea. The hours it takes her to reply are torturous: Arthur can’t focus on anything. Even showering he is a clumsy, emotional wreck. He can’t even wank when he thinks of his old girlfriends or tentatively pictures some of the guys on his course doing the things dream-Merlin has done to him and his mind keeps replacing them with Merlin and he can’t –

It takes everything he has to stop and turn the water to cold. He stands there until he’s shivering before clambering out.

Eventually, his phone pings. _It’s out of stock. M says he’ll have it tomorrow._

Arthur knows it isn’t.

 

## X.

He was walking to class, but is relieved to find himself back on the bus. Last night he couldn’t sleep, even with his new tea cocktail, and when he gave into the aphrodisiac it took him so long to come his arm still aches. Merlin will fix that. Arthur rests his head against the window. The glass shudders against his temple.

And then he is finally seeing Merlin in the flesh again. Arthur drops his bag on the floor with a jerk of his arm. His thoughts are so sluggish he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed that he is half-hard, let alone force words off his tongue. He manages it eventually—

“I need…”                                                                     

—as Merlin moves towards him, around him. There is the sharp snap of the door being locked. It jolts his brain into action.

“Tea. I need tea.”

Merlin studies him for a moment, and Arthur wants to say, _what’s happening_ and _why me_ and _I don’t understand_ but the words stay trapped in his head. Merlin is so close Arthur can count his eyelashes, can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

“I know what you need.”

Merlin takes Arthur’s hand and leads him to the back of the shop. Arthur’s senses spiral into his touch with every step. Behind a curtain there’s a small room with two chairs and a table with a tea timer on it.

“Sit there.” Merlin points at one of the chairs. Arthur does so, and Merlin brushes his knuckles across his cheek in one long, warm, wonderful stroke. “You’re going to like this.”

Arthur nods automatically, too conscious of the hardness between his legs and the lingering sensation of Merlin’s hand. He’s so wrapped up in them that the thud of a teapot on the table, the clink of china, and the sloshing of tea fall on deaf ears. Only Merlin’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Tea’s here, love.”

Arthur looks blearily at the teacup Merlin slides across the table.

“Well, go on.” Merlin leans back in his chair, the flecks of gold in his eyes gleaming in the light. Arthur, suddenly robbed of words and will, drinks the aphrodisiac tea.

He comes unaided after the first cup. By the time he has settled back into himself, Merlin has poured another. Arthur picks it up even though his body is still wobbly, because … because he’s – he’s never come like this, so hard he almost loses consciousness, so long that by the time his vision refocuses the tea timer on the table has completed another round. His stomach is already uncomfortably full, but Merlin’s gaze pierces him to the core. He drinks.

With every cup, Arthur is rewarded with stronger, longer orgasms. By the fourth, Arthur is coming with the cup half-empty, hot liquid rolling onto his shirt, cup bouncing across his torso and shattering on the floor. It lasts far longer than it should have, and with his body quivering and his back arched and his boxers filled again with come the unease in the pit of his stomach is vanquished.

When he eventually recovers, he cannot speak. He sits, gasping for breath, until Merlin’s voice slices through the haze in his head.

“I told you I knew what I was doing.”

There is a pride in Merlin’s eyes that brings a lump to his throat. Arthur finally studies Merlin the way he’s wanted to for so long. That’s when he sees the tent in Merlin’s trousers.

Unthinkingly Arthur shoves the table aside. He drops to his knees with the startled rattling of china in the background, hands already unfastening Merlin’s trousers. Merlin shimmies his hips a little to help when Arthur’s hands seize Merlin’s trousers, boxers and all, and yank them away with such zeal that Merlin eyes widen a little.

Arthur presses his hands against Merlin’s hipbones. He had such lovely hips—

“Get _on with it_.”

Merlin’s voice is hoarse, his hand tangled into Arthur’s hair. Arthur takes him in; the shuddering moan Merlin makes almost too much when Arthur’s blood is smouldering, his skin swimming in sweat. He keeps going, too emboldened by Merlin’s voice to think about why his tongue is swirling around Merlin’s erection, why is body already feels fucked-out. He goes so deep Merlin brushes the back of his throat. And again. And again. He daren’t pause for breath.

“God, you’re good – _fuck_ —”

Arthur speeds up. When Merlin is at the edge he releases Merlin’s hip but he can’t pull back because Merlin’s hand keeps him in place. Arthur accepts it. His enthusiasm has to trump his inexperience. And when he looks up through his eyelashes, Merlin falling apart is better than Arthur imagined.

Merlin pulls him up by his collar and kisses him.

“I’m so glad you came by my shop,” Merlin murmurs against his lips. Arthur’s head is a minefield; he wants to reply, but can’t navigate through his own thoughts when Merlin’s tongue is dancing again with his. Then Merlin presses a foot against Arthur’s erection and he doesn’t have to. All he knows then are sputtering stars across the back of his eyelids.

“Strip for me.”

Arthur is worn out to the bone, but his head bobs obediently. His hands move, fumbling with his shirt buttons first, then his shoes…

When he is done, the cold air against his bare skin is startling. _Bare_. He doesn’t—

“Stop thinking.” Merlin twists Arthur’s nipple for emphasis and he whimpers. The next few moments are a blur, but the next thing Arthur can comprehend is him on Merlin’s lap. His legs are open, hanging off the sides of the chair, and Merlin is pressing their erections together so hard that Arthur’s thoughts escape him again. “I don’t want to make more tea.”

Arthur kisses Merlin sloppily in apology. He can feel the tea fizzing in his blood, anyway; it sloshes in his ears when Merlin’s hands glide up his chest. Arthur arches into his touch and Merlin hums in approval. One hand loops around to the back of Arthur’s neck; the other descends, and Arthur readies himself for Merlin’s hand around his length. But instead it cups his arse.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” Merlin’s slick fingers ( _how did…?_ ) are circling for now. Arthur is so distracted by them that he almost forgets to nod.

“Good boy.” Merlin’s voice is barely a whisper; Arthur’s moan when Merlin pushes into him drowns him out. He is so tight that the fullness is almost too much to bear. But Merlin drawing back is far worse.

Forward and back, forward and back, forward and back, over and over and over and over…

“Next time I fuck you,” Merlin is saying, “you’ll have your sleep tea, too. I know you like that.”

“Okay,” Arthur hears himself say, even though he is so awash with lust and deeply-buried fury that his cheeks are wet. Merlin’s hand is insistent on the back of Arthur’s neck but it is his other hand and its steady thrusts that Arthur is spiralling into. He chokes out, “ _please_.”

“You want another?”

“ _Yes_.” It’s half-hiss, half-grunt.

“You are filthy.” Merlin curves his finger just so and Arthur is reduced to incoherent begging. It takes an eternity for Merlin to slip another into him. And another. Arthur has lost all sense of time to the rhythm of Merlin inside him; the next thing he remembers with clarity is the infinite, agonising moment when he is empty.

When Merlin’s hands lock around his hips, Arthur decides that’s why he can’t escape.

When Merlin pushes into him, that’s why he can’t feel his forgotten fury.

Then Merlin lulls Arthur into the new rhythm he demands, and that’s why he can’t resist. Arthur’s eyes close. His head drops into Merlin’s shoulder, his pleas sputtering across Merlin’s collarbone.

Arthur’s fingertips press so hard into the sides of Merlin’s ribs he will leave bruises. And Merlin presses so hard into Arthur he will leave an unyielding ache that Arthur can only appease when he is full again.

The chair creaks as they move. It judders with every thrust, creeping across the floor, millimetre by millimetre. Nearby, Arthur’s shirt is gradually drying. The room echoes their noises back at them; their breath, the slapping of skin, their moans and groans and grunts and, at long last, their release.

Again, it lasts for far too long; Arthur knows that. It’s just that… that Merlin … Merlin is…

…still rocking into him, gently, and finally Arthur thinks, _whole_. Crumpled onto Merlin, taken by Merlin, with Merlin, he is whole.

His cheek against Merlin’s shoulder, Arthur looks blankly at his scattered clothes. He is too dazed to be afraid.


End file.
